


Exercises in Articulation

by The_Lionheart



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King, Gravity Falls, IT - Stephen King, The Talisman - Stephen King & Peter Straub, Various works by Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Glass Shard Beach is Derry, Hitchhiking, Near Death Experiences, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical 'Discipline', Shermie and his friends are the Losers, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Trans Stan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:38:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: Amidst the mists and coldest frosts,With stoutest wrists and loudest boasts,He thrusts his fists against the posts,And still insists he sees the ghosts.





	1. STAN LIGHTS OUT

He thinks, driving into the night: Shermie wouldn't have let this happen. Shermie would have done something.

But Shermie's in Vietnam, and nobody did anything.

No, he thinks sourly, that's not entirely true. Ford just watched, but Ma spoke up.

It wasn't the right words, and it wasn't enough, but at least...

It didn't matter in the long run.

He drives; the already-blurry night roads get blurrier, and he turns the music up so he can't hear himself cry.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's 1958 and summer is ending. He knows this because soon Shermie will have to go back to school; he and Ford are only four years old and have another year of freedom. Shermie is big, though. Shermie is twelve, and big boys have to go to school, but they don't have nightmares either. It's a fair trade, probably. Lately the twins have been having nightmares: things that chase and separate them, things that tell Ford he's _too much_ , things that tell Lee _not enough_. Ford and Lee are having the same nightmares; it makes sense, by daylight, that they are dreaming together, because they are Twins. Everything they are is everything the other is. They tell Shermie about their bad dreams, and about the monsters that lurk by daylight under the boardwalk and in the spaces between places telling them they'd belong better if they were down there where things like them _float_. Shermie doesn't like these dreams, doesn't like that the monsters peep at the twins from sewer drains and the dark insides of forbidden nooks. Shermie stays up with the twins sometimes, each hand resting gently on a head topped with a mop of soft brown curls, and tells the twins stories and tells them that monsters have weaknesses that big kids like him know about.

It's been a strange, tense summer anyway. Ma twitches the curtains shut when people pass by, every morning Pops scans the newspaper and grumbles at Ma that they don't even seem to be looking for that maniac, and Ma hushes him and tells him not to talk about stuff like that in front of the kids.

Shermie's a good big brother and a good boy. No doubt about that.

Only one night, just before school starts, Shermie is gone all day, all through dinner, and into the night. Ma puts Lee and Ford to bed and frets, tapping long walks up and down the hallway in her heeled shoes, puffing on her Virginia Slims and leaving a small cloud of gray where she walks.

The twins are little enough that they should be asleep already by the time Shermie stumbles into the house; the moon is high and dead-silver, like the scales of a fish stranded at the high-tide line. They crouch near their door in their pajamas instead, holding hands and listening for the punishment they both know is coming- Shermie is almost _never_ naughty, but being gone all day and until this late is Very Naughty.

"Your mother's been worried _sick_ , Sherman. Where the hell have you been?" Pops barks downstairs, and Shermie doesn't answer, and they can hear the sound as Pops grabs Shermie and drags him upstairs into the apartment, Pops' steps angry and pounding, Shermie's slow and shuffling. The noise stops in the hallway outside Shermie's room. "Answer me, boy!"

Shermie is silent. The twins wince as they hear the soft zip of leather passing through belt loops: Shermie is never naughty enough to get the Belt.

There is a single strike, and Shermie is silent. Pops starts to say something, drops the belt on the ground with a small thud.

"Sherman," Pops says, and Pops sounds scared. "Sherman, what's- what's happened, boy? What happened to your hands?"

Shermie finally speaks. "Somebody been following the twins around. Somebody been trying to make them go places with'im. Tryin' to get them alone."

There is a moment of utter silence; their Pops doesn't even seem to be breathing.

"We took care of it," Shermie says dully. "Me an' the guys took care of it."

"You and the guys," Pops repeats. "A bunch of- a bunch of twelve year old kids, you mean."

"I'm tired," Shermie says, very quietly.

"Son," Pops says tentatively, and there's a creak in the floorboards. "Protecting your family, huh? Impressive."

"Thanks, Pops," Shermie says, still very quiet. "I wanna... I wanna see the twins."

Pops is silent for a moment or two. "Wash that crud off your hands and get dressed in clean pajamas first. They're supposed to be _in bed_ ," he adds, in a slightly louder tone that suggests he knows they're pressed against the bedroom door.

Ford and Lee scamper back into bed- crammed together into Lee's, the blankets pulled up to their chins as they squeeze their eyes shut. They're not asleep yet by the time Shermie shuffles into the room in his bare feet.

They expect him to sit down and pat their hair down and tell them a story. He just stands there for several long minutes, before letting out a soft, hiccupping sob.

"Shermie?" Lee asks, sitting up. "Shermie, why you cryin'?"

"My baby brothers," Shermie says softly, as if to himself, big fat tears rolling down his face. "My little- my-"

He throws himself onto the little cot and buries his face in their nightshirts and squeezes them so tight they can hardly breathe, and he cries himself to sleep and the twins try and try to make him feel better, but nothing they say works to silence it.

Shermie spends the rest of the summer in a daze, Ma treating him like he's made of glass, Pops staying out of his way. Things get a little better by the time school starts.

The twins don't dream about that monster again, and don't see or hear him hiding in the shadows anymore after that.

But Shermie never can abide to see a clown after that summer ends.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On April 30th, 1971, a boy named Stan Pines stands where the water and land come together, hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking out at the steady Atlantic. He is sixteen years old and broad-shouldered and so, so tired. The sea-breeze sweeps back his brown hair, already growing shaggy from the clumsy haircut Ford gave him only last week, from a strong brow dotted with sea spray and sweat and fading acne scars. He has been standing there since before dawn, trying to make sense of what the last forty-eight hours have been, and there is no answer in the sea, only movement and sound and the light of the rising sun.

Stan turns around, looking up the empty beach first to the left, then to the right. To the left is Glass Shard Funworld, an amusement park that runs all the racket and roar from Memorial Day to Labor Day. It stands empty and still now, the roller coaster a scaffold against the plum-black sky as it lightens to blues and grays and each star fades away. To the right is the little cave next to the docks where he and Ford worked on the Stan O'War, and that is where the boy's thoughts relentlessly take him. He can't imagine another moment with his hands on the sunwarmed wood of the hull. He can't imagine Ford finishing the repairs himself. He can't imagine what he will do or where.

He wants to cry but he can't; the pressure in his eyes and chest is unbearable and blinding. His mother used to click her tongue at him and tell him that it wasn't healthy or right to keep everything hidden away, but his mother also told him that all girls need to cry, so what does she know?

And he's not going to see her today, or tomorrow. He's not going to get to see her again until he comes back with every dollar he just cost Ford.

His eyes are dangerously close to betraying him.

"I'm scared," he says hoarsely into the wind, and it whips his words away before they leave his mouth.

_This is where the world ends, right?_

Seagulls course the sky overhead, and for the first time in his childhood Stan notices that they are silent.

He wanders to the left; he's been to Funworld before, even sneaking in on the off-season with Carla and Ford to see if they could find out if the skeletons in the funhouse were made of real human bones.

(They were not.)

He's never been to Funworld alone. A thought passes, dizzyingly fast,  _a fall from the top of the roller coaster would kill just about anything_ , and he doesn't know why he thought that, or why he thought it in Ford's voice.

He hops the fence and starts heading for the roller coaster.

He stops because of the buzzing noise- insistent and insectile, like an impending swarm- but when he turns he sees only a gleaming old Buick, half in the shadow of the little waystation marked Maintenance over the door. It's a beautiful car, not a scratch on it, and he takes a step despite himself. In this light it's hard to tell if the car's blue or white or gray, the only color for sure the reflective mirrored chrome.

"That's a Roadmaster, 1953," an old man says, stepping out of the building and wiping his hoary, callussed hands on a rag. "You okay, son?"

Stan nods mutely, tearing his eyes away from the car. It's a year older than he is, but it looks pristine, especially compared to his poor, beat-up old Stanleymobile.

The old man is in a khaki worksuit, belted at the hips with various tools at his sides, the pants legs tucked in to his boots, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. His clothing is the faded non-color that could have been blue chambray once just as easily as it could have been bleached white, before age and use set it to the same non-color as the car beside him. It lays pale and soft against the dark, wrinkled skin of his throat and wrists. He gives Stan a small smile, and Stan can feel his face twitching to respond in kind.

"The world just get better, or did it get worse?" the man asks.

"Uh," Stan says, grinding the heel of his canvas sneaker into the asphalt. "Better."

"Seen you around town before today, boy," the man says. "What do they call you?"

"Stanley," Stan says, swallowing. "Stan."

"Ol' travellin' Stan," the old man says, grinning. "S'fair name." He opens one hand, casting it theatrically aside with a jingle of keys that reminds Stan of Ma's ever-present armful of bangles. "The man you see here is ol' Billy Throcken, formerly a travellin' man hisself, if you c'n believe that one. Been a long while since anybody came to see one of ol' Billy's shows, though."

"Oh," Stan says, and, because he knows he really isn't supposed to be here he rocks back onto his heels. "Um- I didn't- I didn't think anybody'd be here-"

"You didn't," the man says amiably. "But here you are, Travellin' Stan. Good thing, too."

Billy takes out a stick of gum and chews it absentmindedly, patting the car with a shushing noise.

"I oughta... I oughta go," Stan says quietly.

"You ain't goin' to school, are you?" Billy asks severely. Stan freezes, realizes that he is not. It hadn't even occurred to him.

It's just Wednesday. He ought to be heading in to class with Sixer any minute, even though Wednesday mornings he had the only class he didn't share with Sixer, Home Ec. They'd put Sixer in a Drafting class instead, said it was better for a boy like him to have that kind of useful skill. He usually came up with the designs for the little bobs and gewgaws he and Stan made together in Shop, letting Stan do his work so he could keep up on his reading. It felt good to be the one his brother depended on in class, for once.

No more classes with or without Sixer, Stan realizes dully. Ford'll have to make his own lamps and spiceracks now.

"I... ain't in school today," Stan says slowly, and Billy smiles.

"Want a job, son?"

Stan's hands clench into fists at his sides, relax. "Sure."

Billy hands him a sheet of sandpaper and points him in the direction of a couple of waist-high wooden gateposts, tells him to come back when he's done if he wants another. Stan smooths the splintering, salted wood with his sandpaper, switching arms halfways through, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing. The grit on the sandpaper is worn down to smooth dark-gray smudges by the time he goes and finds Billy wrapping electrical tape around a cord that leads to the lightless, inert market lamps suspended over the midway.

"Good," Billy says, standing with a grunt and shaky knees. "You ate breakfast yet?"

Stan hasn't eaten since yesterday's lunch. He shakes his head.

"Come along t'my office, Travellin' Stan. Start your day off."

Billy's office turns out to be the Maintenance building: low-ceilinged, uncomfortably warm from the heat of the industrial-looking coffeemaker in the corner, a little hotplate on a table by it with a couple of chipped mugs that look like they were stolen from a diner. Stan accepts the coffee- bitter and utilitarian, the way Pops drinks it- and waits as Billy cooks up some bacon on the hotplate. It takes all of a few minutes for them to be eating in silence, Billy thumbing through an old paperback copy of Lord of the Flies, Stan with his shoulders hunched around his coffee.

_This is where the world ends, right?_

"You got yourself a look on that face, Travellin' Stan," Billy says.

"Why do you call me that?" Stan asks, frowning. "I ain't ever left New Jersey before."

"You're about to," Billy says, matter of fact, like it's already been decided. Stan bristles, and Billy gives him a piercing glance. "Less you got somewhere else to be?"

"I-" Stan swallows hard. "You don't know me, pal, I-"

"Sure do," Billy says. "You got that twin brother'a yours. Seen the two of you round here. Know there was some kinda science fair that he had some big school shit ridin' on. Know that instead'a bein' home all night and school this mornin' you're _here_ , alone."

Stan freezes, looking down into his mug. (It will not occur to him to wonder how the old man knows so much, or why, for several days, and by then it will be too late.)

The old man speaks.

"Let me tell you a truth you must know in your heart by now, son." Billy pours himself another coffee, and Stan looks up to meet his pale honey-colored gaze. "This world you live in, it's not... what you'd call fair. But it's not the only world. Like two strings of a harp, only a finger's touch away, but never in reach. Worlds where you and your brother haven't been born yet, worlds where you're old and gray." Billy pokes a finger out and sketches a circle in the air. "Worlds where you didn't get yourself kicked out of your home, worlds where you and he are the adventurers you were born t'be, worlds where people respect an' adore the pair'a you."

Billy looks over at Stan, sipping calmly at his fresh coffee. "This world is just one of'em, Stan. And you're just one of you."

"This sounds like one of Sixer's crazy comic books," Stan mutters, and Billy laughs- a hoarse, barking laugh that surprises him a little.

"Could be, could be! Could be there's been people before you an' me now who found out about these other lands you'll be seein', Travellin' Stan. Worlds this close got holes worn in'em, places so thin that you might pass through and no know it. Infinite Stans, boy- and infinite Fords. Always the pair of twins, always together."

"Except," Billy says, and Stan realizes his breath is caught in his throat. "Except some worlds, everything goes wrong. There's a split. The twins ain't together anymore. Them's the worlds that end bad, Travellin' Stan. The worlds that got a Ford and no Stan to protect him are the worlds that Ford gets in over his head. There's a world like that now, just achin' to spill into this'n. It's already started, and pulled your brother an' you apart. Lucky you," he adds. "Ol' Billy Throcken knows the way to set this world right."

"What?" Stan asks, even though he can see it clearly- a world where he hasn't just screwed Ford over, a world where he woke up and everything was normal today, a world where he'll go home to his own bed tonight.

"There's somethin' you can do to make it up to your brother," Billy says, leaning forward. "Lotta things, point of fact. But this thing is important, because this thing doesn't just save you an' your Ford. You do this thing, and you save the Ford in the next world over, too. There's somethin' in California. Gemstone, big as your fist, brought here from that other world. You get it, bring it back here, and you got yourself a brother back."

Stan stares at him, before standing up slowly.

"This is bullshit," he says firmly.

"You want proof, because for all that you ain't like your brother, you _can_ be smart when you need to be," Billy tells him, smiling. "Proof is in easy supply, son. You take a swig of Cosmic Sand, you'll be in that world, you'll see for yourself. A sip to go there, and a sip to come back."

He produces a dented silver flask, smiling.

"This is bullshit," Stan repeats, taking a step back. "You're crazy, you're some kinda pervert or something-"

"If you give this a sip and you still in New Jersey, by all means, stick around, hauntin' your family from the edges, knowin' you'll never make up for what you cost 'em," Billy says, his smile fading. "An' if you take it an' it takes you away, you use this chance you've been given to make things right, Travellin' Stan."

He holds the flask out, and with a shaking hand the sixteen-year-old takes it, unscrewing the cap and wrinkling his nose at the sudden odor of rotting fruit.

"This is moonshine," he mutters. "I'm gonna go fuckin' blind-"

He takes a sip.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He coughs and gags, opening his eyes. The inside of the Maintenance room is gone; he is outside. The first thing he really sees and understands is the sky, deeper and bluer than any he's ever seen, like bright royal velvet.

Stan whips his head around, gaping at his surroundings. Funworld is still abandoned, but it's not longer Funworld: he's surrounded by empty wooden stalls, some of them with upturned carts in them, all of them with empty shelves. The roar of the sea and the cackling of gulls is louder and clearer than he would think this far from the water's edge, and when he turns he cries out, softly. The water is perfect, wine-dark and glassy and roiling with a musical purpose. The sand is pristine and gleaming in the sunlight; the beach is everything he ever wished it could be.

There's an abandoned ship down the coast where the Stan O'War ought to be- masts tilting and sails in sagging rags, a massive, beautiful pirate galleon that's got to be at least ten times the Stan O'War's size. Stan takes two or three steps toward it before he realizes what he's doing.

"That's ours," he whispers, the flask hanging limply in his hand. "That's our ship. That's _our_ ship."

Stan's heart sinks, just a little. Whatever else it is, the ship in the distance is very clearly not being cared for.

There's a clicking and an insectile rustle behind him, and he turns sharply. Emerging from the tide are a bunch of... not lobsters, not quite, but close enough. They're enormous, glistening with seawater, and chittering with a weirdly urgent noise, although Stan's not entire sure where their mouths are or how they're making any noise at all, punctuating their cries with snaps of their hefty claws.

_Didda-didda-didda-CHOK. Dadda-dadda-dadda-CHUK._

Stan shudders out a long, thin breath.

"Mister Throcken?" he asks softly, before raising his voice just a little. "Billy?"

The noise is enough to get the attention of the nearest of those things, and they start scuttling over, antennae twitching. They're fast, Stan realizes, and he turns and runs- toward the docks maybe, somewhere he could climb up and out of their way, but the docks of Glass Shard Beach are nowhere in sight, just a few abandoned houses- shacks, really- and a single broad building, covered in dead vines and sagging under its own weight. Stan stumbles and swears he can feel the breeze of a snapping claw against his ankle, snagging the leg of his jeans as his shoes fill with sand.

_The moonshine,_ Stan remembers, and he can't think of anything else, so he takes a sip and hopes it's strong enough that he won't feel it when the claws finally connect-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan misses a step and tumbles to the sand, skinning his knees on something sharp in the dirty sand. He brings the flask down with trembling hands, screwing the cap back on in a daze. He'd only managed to go a few feet down the beach, he knows it.

He turns and looks. Funworld's at least a couple football fields away, and there's a lone figure in off-white jogging toward him.

Stan's jeans are in shreds around his right ankle.

His stomach rebels, and he curls up in the sand and throws up.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_my first thought was, he lied in every word_


	2. THE ROAD OF TRIALS 1: Stan in the Territories

"Are you sure I can't take my car?" Stan had asked, in a final moment of desperation, and Billy Throcken shook his old head.

"It can't go with you to the other lands, Travellin' Stan," he'd said. "You leave the old girl here, Billy'll keep her nice and safe while's you're gone."

Stan had tucked his keys away into his duffel bag at that, sighing.

"Can... can you give my brother a letter?" he'd asked.

"If you got one to give," Billy'd told him. Stan had scrambled for a paper and a pencil off Billy's desk, but in the end all he could think of was

_i love you_

_i'm sorry_

_goodbye_

and he hoped that Ford would believe the first two things and would understand the third.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You said Ford's in danger," Stan says, standing at the edge of the empty lot where traveling fairs set up shop twice a year. His duffel's a little heavier than he remembers it being, but he doesn't feel comfortable digging through it under Billy's gaze.

"You'll see," Billy says serenely, tipping something into the silver canteen with a flourish and screwing it tightly shut. "Topped you off here, Travellin' Stan. Now listen- you will see somebody, he looks to be your brother, and in all the ways that matters that's who he is. But the one you see there won't know it."

"What do you mean?" Stan asks, and Billy gives him a sad little smile.

"He won't know it because this is one of the worlds where there ain't a Stan to keep Ford's mind right," he says simply. "Now listen-"

"Why?" Stan asks, horrified. "Did Pops kick me out there, too? Does-"

"Now listen," Billy repeats firmly. "Here's what you do. You keep your face hidden. You keep _that_ hidden," he adds, pointing sharply at Stan's chest. "You see what you got to see to understand what you're doin', ya ken?"

"What?" Stan asks, confused and tired and more than a little defensive at the way Billy snapped his finger out at him.

"Your brother," Billy says, like a man quickly forgetting what patience is. "You got to go there, see the Twinner of your brother Ford, see what you're to save him from and what you're savin' your Ford from. Understand?"

"No, not really," Stan mutters, and Billy sighs. He reaches into his pocket and opens up his hand; a shining gold disc gleams in his palm before Stan realizes what it is. He gingerly takes the compass in hand, swinging the locket hinge open to check that North's still there, before shutting it again and running his fingertips over the leaping salmon engraved into the cover, mouth open wide to catch some small, indistinct morsel.

"You keep that close," Billy says seriously. "Some of the ones that are hunting for ways to hurt your brother will know to look for you. You don't let anyone see that unless it's an emergency."

"Okay," Stan says, feeling foolish as he tucks it into his pocket.

"A life or death emergency," Billy adds.

"Okay, I got it." Stan pats the bulge in his side pocket. "Anything else I gotta do?"

"Go west," Billy says firmly. "You go west, you keep going west til you hit ocean."

"There's a whole lot of west," Stan says, slightly stunned. "Where west do I-"

"Stan, son, I guarantee you won't be _able_ to miss it," Billy says, hands on the toolbelt. "Just follow the road, and when in doubt, ask yer compass where to go."

"Okay," Stan says finally. "So... so do I just..."

"Flip over to that world, boy," Billy says softly. "Remember, you cross more distance travelin' there, but there's hunters on the lookout for you there, too. Keep out of sight as much as you can."

"Keep out of sight," Stan repeats, feeling foolish. A suspicion starts to gnaw at him- how does he know, how does he _know_ that this is real? How does he know this is going to help Ford?

The worm of guilt in his gut writhes at the thought of his twin, and to avoid it Stan takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, takes a sip from the canteen-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-and opens his eyes at the edge of a road. He looks around, and realizes for the first time that his clothing is different here than it is home. His jeans are some sort of loose, dark trousers now, not quite as thick and sturdy as real denim, still ragged around his ankle. His sneakers are flat, babysoft leather sandals now, and his shirt is looser and longer-sleeved and coarsely knit, and-

Stan pauses, putting his hand on his chest. Under his shirt he's wearing a snug, weighted vest, and it does a better job flattening him out than his clumsy attempts at streamlining his shape at home. He casts a glance around- there's no one to see- and he peeks inside the collar of his shirt. The vest is short and like everything else he's wearing, he's sure it was made by hand. He runs his hand down his front. It's not... exactly flat, mostly thanks to a gut Ma laughingly likes to slap and call babyfat, but it looks, well. Like it belongs to him.

Stan checks his bag- the duffel's now some sort of leather thing with a flap over a drawstring, and the thing that Stan expected to be a varsity letterman jacket (swiped off some idiot who thought he could get away with shoving Ford into lockers) is now a knee-length cloak, heavy and hooded. Stan puts it on, feeling foolish, feeling like he's wearing a costume.

"Incognito," he mutters to himself. He wishes he'd thought to ask Billy where to find this weird Other-Ford...

...but when he looks in the direction where home ought to be, he sees only that same low, forbidding building from earlier.

Stan purses his lips a little.

"I just bet," he says under his breath. He breaks into a jog, thinking: if that's our building, then the waffle place next to us is open, I can get some lunch or something.

The closer he gets the clearer it gets that he's not going to be buying lunch in this weird, other Glass Shard Beach. The building looks half like some kind of low-rent castle and half like some kind of institution, and there are rows and rows of airy white tents clustered around the edges of the grounds. There are people lined up around the front, most of them dirty and wearing some variation of the clothing that Stan found himself in here. Each little knot of human bodies seems to have at least one sick person in it; usually a very old-looking person leaned up against a rag-wrapped crutch, but some of them are burly men and women carrying listless kids, or pale, drawn-faced farmers with legs and arms hastily splinted to one side. The sight of so many sick and hurt people kind of makes Stan's stomach hurt, so he turns to see if the alley behind his house still exists, and if he can duck in, just one last peek in at his family, even if it's a different version of them-

"You best had come prepared with a reason for thy devilish ways," a stern voice says, and a hand closes around Stan's shoulder, turning him towards the speaker.

It's Shermie- not in Vietnam, but here, in New Jersey-

"-though there's aught to steal anymore, you-" he stops, looking down at Stan for a moment. A lump forms in Stan's throat.

It's not Shermie. Not really. The face is too thin, the cheekbones too high and prominent, and the man in front of him has an eyepatch tied down over one scarred eyesocket, and if Shermie got his eye shot out in Vietnam they- they would have sent him home, wouldn't they have?

"What mischief is this?" the not-Shermie asks flatly. Stan blinks at him, momentarily speechless- he's wearing a cloak, dark red and tattered at the edges, and a few bits of armor that look like they can withstand serious attacks (and, recently, have already) and a thick leather belt with a short sword hanging at his side. He doesn't look like a shining movie knight, but he sort of-

-he sort of looks like what a knight might have really looked like.

"I-I just wanted to see Ford," Stan says softly, forgetting all about everything Billy'd said about being secretive. "I-I just-"

"Who sent you?" not-Shermie says, glancing over his shoulder before edging Stan into a more private alcove against a section of wall.

"Um, Billy did," Stan offers, stammering. "Billy Throcken, he- he's a guy that works at the funworld near my house, I guess-"

"Billy Throcken," not-Shermie repeats, and his one eye is looking about as impressed as Pops usually does. "Aye, and next you'll be sayin' you were tasked by none other than the Great Axo-"

"Shermie, I don't know what that means," Stan snaps, before recoiling slightly. "I mean- I'm-"

Not-Shermie's hand darts out and snags Stan by the chin, turning it this way and that before he huffs out a sigh.

"I know not how this came to pass," he mutters, "but all my brothers be fools, it seems."

"Do you know me?" Stan asks, eyes huge. "He said Ford wouldn't- but- Shermie, you know me, don'cha?"

"Must you invite mischief with your constant babble?" Not-Shermie says gruffly, hustling Stan through a small, gated hole in the wall. "Stan, though, is it? It's a fine name."

They pass stonework and white canvas "walls," the man's hand resting at the top of Stan's back. It's a few more minutes before he speaks.

"Most who travel here know this family by name, if not by face. The Baron and his wife. His disgraced son, Sir Sherridan," he adds, slapping a hand to his chest. "And the heir, young Fortis." Stan's heart sinks a little.

"Not- not me, though?" he asks haltingly, and Sherridan-Shermie pauses, his gaze becoming something that could almost be described as soft as he puts a rough hand under Stan's chin and lifts his face a little.

"The old name would not have suited you," he says simply, before patting Stan's cheek. "And it was very rarely spoken, in any case."

"What's that mean?" Stan hisses as they start moving again.

"It means one child in every dozen dies in their first month," Sherridan says simply, unlocking a heavy-looking door. "And nobody expected _both_ twins to survive."

"Oh," Stan says in a very quiet voice. "So you never- so I never got to be, like-"

"Hush," Sherridan commands, pressing Stan behind him as a pair of dark shapes pass by the other side of a stretch of canvas. Once both figures are gone, he lets out a sigh of relief.

"Half the devils here are cut-rate surgeons and barbers," Sherridan mutters darkly, "and half are those accursed Sisters, and the poor fools lined out front mayn't know or care the distinction."

"What is the difference?" Stan asks, blinking, and Sherridan snorts.

"There is none, to a dead man," he says, with a sort of cadence that makes Stan think that it's only half of a phrase. "Come along, young Stan."

They pass through what Stan realizes with a start is the back door to their neighbor's deli, and the stairs Sherridan leads him up are so dark that he can only navigate by the weak glint of light on his sort-of brother's shoulders. When Sherridan stops suddenly Stan almost runs straight into him, and then he's being pushed forward, against rough brickwork in total darkness.

"Slide open the hatch in front of you," Sherridan whispers from behind him, and after a moment of fumbling Stan's got it open, the sudden light just enough for Stan to notice something vaguely kitten-sized scurry away at face-level.

And then Stan sees what's laying in the bed in the center of the room, and all other things flee his mind.

It's Ford, still and paperwhite in a huge bed-

-no, no, it's not. His forehead and chin are a little too rounded, his brow a little too heavy, and Ford, Ford's okay, Ford's not in great shape but he's healthy, whereas this person, the skin on his face and neck and wrists is so pale that Stan thinks he can see the dark crisscross of veins, even without his glasses.

"What's wrong with him?" he asks, horrified.

"It's worse when he wakes," Sherridan says grimly behind him. "He becomes all a-flurry for days at a time, not resting, barely eating, working towards some hidden, damnable goal. The lord Baron," Sherridan spits out the word, as if it means something other than Pops, "thinks this is the price of genius. Big plans for this Barony, has our brother."

"But is he... is he sick? Is he... is he going to be okay?"

"He has some sort of illness, but not one we understand well. Or... well, if we understand it, it's not within our power to turn its cruel blade aside."

"But how did he get sick?" Stan demands softly.

"I know but a little of the other... worlds that be," Sherridan says carefully. "Does your twin take his proper care and exercise caution without prompting?"

"Um," Stan says, taking a moment to figure out what each of those words means. "I mean, when people tell him to, I guess-"

"Aye, but now imagine him without someone he'll readily obey," Sherridan says, and Stan groans slightly. Sherridan taps his shoulder. "Come along, boyo. You were given a mission, true?"

"True," Stan says, reluctantly turning from the sight of his almost-brother. He looks back quickly- Ford's head has moved and it almost looks like his eyes are open, although Stan really can't tell without his glasses, but that couldn't even be in the neighborhood of right, because for that split second Stan also thinks almost-Ford's eyes are bright yellow.

Sherridan sees Stan to the edge of the pavilion, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I am glad to have met you, all other things aside," he says, and Stan's struck with a pure moment of utter misery. The one-eyed knight coughs and looks awkwardly away, roughly tousling Stan's hair. "You were sorely, desperately missed here."

"Um, Sherridan," Stan says, clearing his throat. "If... if you're here, does that mean my Shermie's gonna be home soon?"

Sherridan blinks, then shrugs. "I could hardly say, young Stan, but- aye, likely he will be."

"Oh," Stan says, swallowing drily. "Did... did he get his eye shot out in Vietnam? Is he... is he hurt right now?"

"I could not say, as I have no knowledge of that place," Sherridan says seriously. "But if you pass by this way again at the end of your quest I can certainly see to finding out more."

"You could?" Stan asks, and Sherridan grins just a little, looking more like Shermie than ever.

"Of course, Stan. We're your older brother, after all- we know _everything_ eventually," he says with what Stan's pretty sure is a wink. "Come. I'll walk you to the Western Road."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan's no good at telling what time it is, but if he has to guess he'd say it's been an hour in the noonday sun- it feels like longer, but the sun's still mostly overhead, so it can't have been all that long. He walks along the edge of the road, trying to figure out where, exactly he'd be if he was home now.

~~Lunch behind the cafeteria with Sixer-~~ no.

Stan thinks for a while, letting his mind wander.

"An hour's walk west," he murmurs to himself, hands tucked into the folds of the heavy cloak. "Carla's house is twenty minutes ago. Should be gettin' to the edge of town soon."

He lets his feet carry him, a steady rolling plodding step, before he clears his throat and corrects himself.

"But the world's shorter here," he says softly. "So. What. The new airport over in Atlantic City?"

That sounds about right. Stan gives himself a nod, falling silent.

The wind hisses through the trees lining the road- some look almost normal, pines and oaks, but some are slick-looking with stocky trunks and twisting, barren branches. Stan tries to avoid looking at them- call him crazy, but the wind's starting to whistle in earnest now, and it sounds like words, our-boy-good-boy-ooouuurrr-boy-gooooood-boy-

"Get ahold'a yourself," Stan tells himself with a shiver, startling a couple of birds overhead.

Something crunches in the woods to his right. Stan swallows drily. The sun's up, it can't be any later than one or two, and yet-

-and yet, it feels like the forest is getting darker, like the sunlight is being sucked up into the trees.

Something crunches again, but closer, louder.

"I'm not fuckin' afraid," Stan mutters to himself. The road curves gently to the north just ahead, and he can hear a faint rustling and snapping the closer he gets.

He stops in his tracks when the road finally turns enough for him to see, on the side of the road he's been walking on, a gathering of blue-black birds that come up to his waist. He sees a suggestion of light-brown fur and a lot of red, and his stomach clenches, no longer remotely hungry. Stan hurriedly crosses to the other side of the road, keeping his eyes on the small flock. They don't look exactly like buzzards or vultures- if anything, he thinks distantly, they look like ravens, only five times the size of the birds he's used to.

One raises its head up and back, snapping something stringy and purple and sending blood flying.

Stan tries to hurry, and it pauses, tilting its head to watch him with one glassy gold-ringed eye, ruffling its feathers.

"Don't mind me, doot-de-doo, just passin' by, deedly-day-oh," he mutters under his breath, willing the birds to ignore him.

" _Aaaawwwrrrk_ ," the bird cries, hopping to one side and tilting its head again, looking at Stan with its other eye.

"Just a fuckin' bird, keep movin'," Stan whispers, watching it as he goes past.

" _'iiiiiiyyyyyin'_ ," the bird warbles hoarsely, hopping after him. " _'other's 'iiiyyyyyyiiin', 'aann_."

"Nooooope," Stan says flatly, and breaks into a run. Behind him he hears the heavy whuff as wings the length of his arms beat the air, raising the monstrous bird higher.

" _'iiiiyyyiiiinnnnn', 'aaannn!_ " the bird squawks overhead. " _'ooorrddssss 'iiiiyyyyyyiiinnnnn'!_ "

The bird swoops and its talons rake across the back of Stan's neck and scalp; he yelps and tumbles to his knees, hot blood running in a thin trickle down his back. Stan doesn't think- he jumps to his feet and runs for the cover of the forest, ducking past grasping branches and dodging trees. He goes as deep as he can and still see the road, collapsing to his knees with a squelch in an inch of watery mud.

"Fuckin'," he pants, leaning his shoulder on a thick tree trunk. The entire flock is gathered in a babbling mass on the nearest part of the road, cawing and squawking and sounding unnervingly like they're laughing. The trees around him start really rustling in the wind, its whistling echo sharp against the branches- OUR-boy-GOOD-boy-OURRRRR-BOOOYYYY-YESSSSSS-

Stan realizes that he can't feel any wind at the same time that he realizes that something thick is wrapped around his ankle; it knocks him flat with a sudden tug and he realizes that the trees are moving closer, the roots and branches flailing towards him. He kicks the root around his leg off in a panic, scrambling back from it as he fumbles with his bag for the canteen.

"Fuck it, fuck all this," he huffs, unscrewing the cap just as a root snaps around his wrist and another winds its way around his neck, scraping painfully against the bloody cuts left by the bird. The canteen falls to the mud with a flash of light-colored liquid that pours uselessly into the brackish water, as Stan gags and claws one-handed at the root around his neck. He manages to wrench it off of him and snatch the canteen up; he puts it to his mouth and takes half a mouthful, hoping and praying-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-Stan falls to his knees, no longer held up by the wrist, his varsity jacket stained and muddy. He thinks to cap the canteen before he gives it a shake, and realizes with a pang that it's half gone at the very least.

He looks up, shaking. He's in the woods next to a highway. There's a sign nearby, on his side of the road a little further up, that reads "EXIT TO - 322" and he's not sure what that means, so maybe... maybe's he's gone a little farther than he thinks?

Stan numbly shoves the canteen away, hugging his duffel to his chest as he gets shakily to his feet.

He gets past the treeline and takes a few steps.

A boxy brown car slows to a stop, pulling over on the shoulder, and the driver opens his door, giving Stan a concerned look. "Hey kid, you hitchin' a ride or-"

The man stops, mouth opening slightly. "Kid? You- you okay?"

Stan sniffles, swallows back the urge to cry. "Yeah, I, uh-" The lie forms, perfect and crystal, and Stan takes it.

"I'm tryin' to get to D.C., my big brother's comin' back from 'Nam, and I, I-"

"Hey now, kid, don't, uh, don't cry," the man says, looking panicky. "Look, I'm not headed to D.C. but I can get you to Wilmington, okay?"

"Wilmington?" Stan repeats, unsure of where, exactly, that is.

"Just over the river in Delaware," the man says regretfully. Stan gapes at him.

An hour. He just crossed the entire state, almost. In an _hour_.

"That's.... that's okay," he stammers, and when the man opens the car door he sinks into the passenger seat with a mixed sigh of relief and exhaustion.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool_


End file.
